


The Long and Winding Road

by CdnGingerGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Inspector Greg Lestrade (mention), Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Mrs Hudson (mention), Mycroft Holmes (mention), The Beatles - Freeform, songs-of-the-ood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CdnGingerGirl/pseuds/CdnGingerGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for songs-of-the-ood, for the prompt: mending wounds; starting romance; the Beatles. For the November Johnlock Challenge gift exchange for November 2012</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long and Winding Road

**Author's Note:**

> I got very ambitious with this prompt. Luckily, Maggie_Conagher was there to calm me down. And if anyone knows how I puts links in the summary and the notes, can you let me know? I'm kind of inept with this whole technology thing.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were destined to be together.

It didn’t matter how many fights they had, or how many times they separated, or for what reason. They always gravitated to each other again, a planet to a star, the tides to the moon. As, once, all roads led to Rome, so their paths always led to each other.

Sometimes, it took longer, but it was inevitable.

~~

1\. Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)

Sussex, 1990

The boy was hiding in the hedge.

Pale, face drawn, long black curls in dire need of a cut or even a wash, he had been there for several days, John was sure of it. Today, he was determined to flush him out.

“Oi! You, in the bush there. Why’re you hiding?”

Silence.

“Mmm, custard creams. And I get them all to myself!”

Still nothing.

John frowned; outright confrontation hadn’t worked, and neither had (to his ten-year-old mind) subtle bribery. Time for something more aggressive: he marched over to the thicket and yanked the boy out bodily.

“Hey!” The other boy stood before him, rubbing his bare arm; John could see a red mark where he had grabbed the thin arm. “Unhand me, varlet!”

“Varlet?” John’s eyebrows rose as his lips shaped the unfamiliar word.

The other boy sighed. “It means knave, rascal, blackguard.” At John’s gormless expression, he sighed again, loudly. “Dull. Why were you pulling on me?” He continued rubbing his arm.

“Why have you been spying on me?” John countered. The taller boy flushed and looked down. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the taller boy said with a sniff. “And I wasn’t spying, I was observing. Besides, you’re on my land!”

“ _Your_ land?” John couldn’t help the incredulous tone in his voice. “You can’t own land, you’re a kid! ‘S’not legal, I don’t think.”

“Well, my father’s land. But in his absence, I am lord of the manor and as such, it is my responsibility to ensure our borders are secure from interlopers—“

“Oh, come off it,” John interrupted. “This is forest for miles around, and I wasn’t hurting anything, I just wanted to climb a tree. You can see forever up there, come on!” He brushed the rest of Sherlock’s protests aside and shimmied up a large oak. He stopped on the first branch and leaned down. “I’m John Watson, by the way, and I live about a mile that way.” He jerked his thumb vaguely north. “Now come on!”

Sherlock gaped at the grubby blond boy in the tree, and then shrugged and gripped the trunk.

~~

Although we have the best intentions, life is what happens when we’re busy making other plans.

~~

2\. You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away

Sussex, 1995

“Sherlock, we’ve been over this, a million times.” John was a patient man, but no one’s patience is infinite.

“Smithfield is a perfectly good school, as far as such things go,” Sherlock grumbled. “I don’t see why you have to go to stupid old Elmwood. It can’t be the money, I told you, Mycroft would be perfectly happy to—”

“It’s not that. It’s not and you know it!” John exclaimed. He sat beside his friend; the fifteen year old’s black curls were more rampant than usual. No surprise, since Sherlock had been yanking on them, possibly in an effort to pull them out entirely. “I mean, it’s part of it; the scholarship’s helping, you know that.”

“I don’t know why you’ll take their money but you won’t take mine!” Sherlock exploded. “It’s not like I’m going to use it for anything!” He launched himself off the bed and began pacing, still pulling at his hair. “It’s not charity! Call it a gift, call it whatever you will, John!”

“Sherlock!” John stepped in front of him and grabbed his wrists, tugging them gently; with a groan, Sherlock released his grip on his hair and covered his face. “Smithfield is a good school, it’s a great school. But it’s not for me. You know I want to be a doctor, right? And Elmwood alumni get into all the best medical schools! It’s what’s best for me. And it’s closer to home, and to…”

“Mary.” Sherlock spat the name spitefully. John pulled on the thin wrists again, harder than before, and glared at him.

“I know how you feel about her. But I care for her, I do. I think she might be…” John’s eyes blurred as he gazed off in the distance. “She’s the One, Sherlock. I know it.”

Sherlock scoffed. “The One! You’re _fifteen,_ John. What do you know of love? And the One, you have your whole life ahead of you! Why you want to chain yourself to _Miss Mary Morstan_ , Mary Mary Quite Contrary more like, if her, ahem, _dalliance_ with Mark Palmer is anything to go by…”

John released his grasp on Sherlock’s wrists, only to grab his lapels and shake, hard. “Oi! That’s between her and me, yeah? And we’ve worked through it!” He released the other boy’s jacket and rubbed his own face. “Besides, she’s got great tits. And I have to start thinking of my future, haven’t I? School, then Uni and medical school? And you have Victor, haven’t you? He’s a good-looking bloke, and he seems to like you…”

The taller boy flushed. “Be that as it may, Victor and I haven’t planned out our whole future together. It’s diverting for now, and if it develops into something more on either of our parts, we’ll deal with it as it comes. But how can you…” He trailed off, and mumbled the end of his sentence; John wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have caught the words ‘leave me’.

Ah. Of course. Sherlock had been a lonely child when they met, practically an orphan, rattling around like a ghost in his huge house while his parents spent their time jet-setting around the globe; his father, a consultant for large corporations, his mother, a concert pianist. With only his often-absent brother, Mycroft, and a string of housekeepers and governesses, Sherlock had been half-wild when they had met, one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. John was no less lost in his own way: his father had been a Major in the RAMC before he drank himself to death; consumed with her grief, his mother hadn’t noticed her oldest child going the same way. All close relatives being dead, his sister next to useless, John had gone to an aunt and uncle in Sussex, where he’d met Sherlock. They’d grown up together, gone to school together. Now it was time for them to start thinking about the future, and it was rapidly becoming clear to Sherlock, to his chagrin, that John’s future might not include him.

 “Sherlock!” John gripped his shoulders slightly and shook him. “Look, Elmwood’s only an hour away by train, yeah? And we’ll chat online, and my Uncle told me I could have a mobile for my birthday, so then we could text, right? Besides, it’s only for two years, and then we’re off to Uni together! You’ll be an Oxbridge fellow, and I’ll…” He trails off. “Well, I don’t know where I’ll go, I’ll need awfully good GCEs to go anywhere, and get a scholarship, but it’ll be fine! C’mon, you know we’re still best mates. Who else can I whinge to when my classes are too hard or when Mary’s out with her girlfriends, and I know you’ll want to complain about Mycroft…”

“Fat arse. Did I tell you he’s gone up another trouser size?” Sherlock couldn’t resist; John smiled.

“You see? Now come on, help me pack. My train leaves tomorrow, and I don’t want to forget anything. Sherlock.” The taller boy peered out balefully from under his curls. “You’re my best mate. Nothing will change that, you know that? No matter what happens, when I’m a doctor, and with Mary, and you’re with Victor, and you’re… whatever it is you’re going to be, we’re still going to be Sherlock-and-John, right?” He gripped Sherlock’s hand tightly until he got a nod, then nodded himself. “Now come on, help me pack these books.

“John.”

“Hmm?”

“Here.”

When John turned around, Sherlock was holding out his Nokia. “What… I can’t text Mycroft for you now, Sherlock.”

“No.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I want to you take it. I’ll get a new one tomorrow and call you with the number. Now you don’t have to wait for your birthday.”

John was stunned. “Sherlock, I can’t… it’s yours.”

“Take it. I want you to have it. It’s a good phone, and it’s easy to use.  And you already know how to use it,” Sherlock insisted, his lips curving up in a smile.

“I don’t…” John trailed off, looking at the mobile in Sherlock’s thin hand. “I just… thanks, I guess, mate!” He pulled Sherlock into a quick, masculine hug, thumping him on the shoulder. When he pulled back, his grin was huge. “I don’t know what to say. This is so cool, Sherlock, thanks! I’ll text you as soon as I get set up tomorrow, yeah?”

Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat. What was that saying?

 _If you love something, set it free… if it comes back, it’s yours; if not, it was never meant to be_.

~~

When Sherlock saw John off at the train the next morning, they shook hands and smiled, John exuberant and excited for his new adventure, Sherlock reserved and barely holding in the hurt at his best friend’s departure.

As they shook hands, Sherlock forced his face into the semblance of a smile, hoping it wasn’t a complete grimace. His brother’s last words echoed in his mind.

_“Remember, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage; don’t get drawn into a losing game. And for God’s sake, don’t let anyone know how you feel about John; hide it away._

~~

3\. From Me to You

Montague St., London, 2002

Clutching his coat tightly against the freezing rain, Sherlock picked up the post from the vestibule just inside the building’s front door. He usually ignored it, letting one of the other tenants drop anything for him outside the door of his flat, but he was expecting a letter from the solicitor, and it wouldn’t do to let that fall into the wrong hands.

Letting the heavy door fall closed behind him, he balanced the four envelopes and one, shoebox-sized parcel on the stack of files he had liberated from Scotland Yard’s archives as he fumbled for his keys in his pocket. As he walked into his flat, he stepped over the sprinkling of flour on the threshold (the landlord had taken to “inspecting” the flat desultorily, and while Sherlock would have preferred to booby-trap, her knew he couldn’t afford to be evicted again; this was an acceptable warning system) and dropped the files and envelopes on the table, turning the package over in his hands. It was covered in stamps, and addressed in blocky capital letters:

S HOLMES

344 MONTAGUE ST

LONDON WCB1

In the upper right corner, in smaller letters:

CAPT J H Watson

RAMC

5th NORTHUMBERLAND FUSILLIERS

Sherlock snapped the string in his haste to pull it off, and ripped off the brown paper, slicing the webbing between his thumb and forefinger in the process. The package was wrapped again in newsprint; Sherlock couldn’t read Dari, but he recognised the map of Kabul on one page. Under the newspaper, a small box, pressed into service from its original use as gauze storage, held tightly shut with medical tape. Sherlock used his thumbnail to catch a corner, yanking the tape off in a long strip and, falling into a chair at the kitchen table, lifted the lid.

On top, a note, folded neatly into third; he set that aside for now. Underneath, a small statue of a tiger, cast in gold. The metal was cheap, bright and brassy, but the skill of the maker was undeniable; the tiger’s face was caught at the beginning of a roar, and Sherlock could see the warning in its eyes. Folded under the figurine, a woven scarf, muted in shades of brown and grey. Sherlock studied the scarf; it was clearly made by someone who, while a skillful weaver, wasn’t entirely sure what they were doing. He put the items back in the box and unfolded the note; it was dated three weeks previous.

                _Sherlock!_

_Afghanistan is ... there are no words. It’s green and brown and red, and the people, the ones who aren’t trying to blow us up, are so welcoming and kind._

_Yesterday I was in the market in Kabul, and I came across a man selling these little gold animals. I don’t know if you have feelings about tigers, one way or another, but I thought you’d like him. His face is so alive, and he kind of reminded me of you... Or not. Hell, I don’t know what I’m saying. I saw him and thought of you; it’s enough._

_The scarf was made by a woman who makes rugs and blankets in the area around the FOB. She wasn’t quite sure what I wanted, but I showed her a photo of you, in that grotty old grey thing you wear around your neck, and told her I wanted something better. My lieutenant’s girl called the other day and told us it’s been one of the rainiest, coldest Novembers on record in London, so I thought you could use this. It’s made of a local goat’s wool, very soft and warm, I’m told._

_So I suppose they could be early Christmas gifts? I know you’ve never been fond of holidays, but I couldn’t let our first one apart go by without sending you something, yeah? So here you go. To Sherlock, from John._

_I have a month of leave scheduled for February. You’ll be my first stop, even before Mary. It’ll be Sherlock-and-John again, just like in school._

_Happy Christmas, and stay safe!_

_John_

_PS: It’s weird being here without my best mate. Like when I went to Elmwood. I can’t help but wonder what you’d see if you were here._

_J._

Sherlock read the letter, then again. He crumpled it in his fist and sat at the table for a long time, staring at the tiger and rubbing the fine wool of the scarf between his thumb and forefinger.

Eventually, he roused himself, giving his head a quick shake. It was only November 21, plenty of time to post something to John in time for Christmas, if he hurried. He could re-purpose the box John had used.

~~

_1 Jan., 2003_

_Happy New Year, mate!_

_Thanks awfully for the gift... you always did know just what I needed. The tea is much appreciated (and will not be shared), and, well, the bobble hat looks ridiculous on, I think, but I’m quite the talk of the base! I sent a photo of me wearing it, with a couple of mates._

_Just four more weeks until leave! I’d text you details of my flight, but I think I’d like to surprise you. Besides, I don’t expect you to drop your work just to pick me up at the airport._

_I can’t believe Scotland Yard is as stupid as you think. They all got their jobs for a reason, you know, and “the best of a bad lot” isn’t a reason, you git. But at least you’re working, and looking after yourself, right?_

_Sherlock... I don’t know how to say this; I can barely write the words. Mycroft sent me a note, with your Christmas parcel. Are you okay? He said you’d been hanging around some... not-so-nice parts of town. You know how Mycroft’s all... cagey, I guess. Sherlock, what’s going on? Are you involved in something I should know about?_

_Hang in there. Thirty more days._

_John._

Sherlock stared at the letter, than ripped it into tiny pieces and picked up the length of rubber tubing. He saw no reason to break the drug’s hold on him.

~~

4\. I Feel Fine

Montague St., London, 2003

“Sherlock!”

The pounding on the door of the Montague Street flat was almost more than Sherlock could bear, his head was throbbing so. Cocaine was excellent for focusing the mind, but the side effects did cause their own problems. He splashed water on his face at the sink and straightened his clothes, trying to pull himself together.

“Sherlock!” John, blond, tan, clearly muscled and defined from his training, stood in the loo doorway. He was still dressed in fatigues, his rucksack over his shoulder, hair wet from the mist and rain. Pain struck Sherlock in the gut as he realised just how much he had missed his friend.

_Not just missed. Not just a friend._

Putting on his “friendly” smile (nothing genuine about it, most useful for getting information from little old ladies), Sherlock offered his hand. “John.”

“Oh now, none of that!” John dropped his bag on the floor and pulled Sherlock into a strong hug, holding him tightly. Sherlock gasped in a breath of air, inhaling John as he did.

_Dust, stale recirculated air, perfume from woman seated next to him, deodorant, JOHN._

John thumped him twice on the back and released him, but grasped Sherlock firmly by the biceps and indicated the door with a tilt of his head. “Big bloke downstairs let me in. My God, look at you! Still scrawny and pale, yeah? Afghanistan would give you a bit of colour!”

Sherlock felt his smile slip, something more genuine taking its place. “Nonsense. While scarlet _is_ a colour, I don’t think it would suit me at all. And freckles most definitely do not belong on my face.”

John laughed, loudly and heartily. “You’re probably right, at that! You’d burn to a crisp.” He backed away, holding Sherlock at arms’ length. “God, it’s good to see you! I missed you so much! God Sherlock...” He stopped, just staring at Sherlock. “Are you okay? You look pale, really tired. You’re not sleeping, are you?”

Brushing the question aside, Sherlock relaxed into John’s grip. “Tea?”

“You want me to make it, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

Sherlock smiled fully for the first time since... well, since John’s departure overseas. “I want you to feel at home here.”

~~

With tea in hand, ensconced on the sofa, the two men gazed at each other, simply absorbing the comfortable feeling of being in each other’s presence again. Neither gave any indication of wanting to talk; Sherlock was naturally taciturn, and John was simply exhausted from his flights.

Finally, Sherlock drained his tea. “So when are you planning on asking Mary to marry you?”

John twitched in surprise, and then chuckled. “Should have known that wouldn’t get past you. What was it, did one of my letters give something away?”

“And the outline in your pocket.”

Touching the square bulge in his breast pocket, John laughed again. “Yeah, I picked it up from a goldsmith in Kabul. He does great custom work.” He pulled the box out and tossed it to Sherlock. “Have a look.”

Sherlock opened the hinged box, and stared at the delicate gold. Pierce-cut scrolls curled around the flat band, giving it an airy feel. He pulled it out; engraved inside was a phrase in flowing Dari.

“’Forever love will stay with me’”, John explained. “I feel like I’ve loved her all my life, Sherlock. I mean, between her and you, I sent out the most letters of anyone on the base. Some days over there, it’s so hot and dry, the sand just gets in your eyes, your nose, under your nails, in your boots, and people die every day there. My head nurse... his girlfriend sent him a Dear John last week. The man just fell apart, Sherlock. But you’re my best mate, and if Mary says yes... I’ll be the happiest guy in Afghanistan.”

“She’ll say yes.” The words were stones in Sherlock’s mouth, but he forced them out anyway. He slipped the ring back in its box and passed it back to John.

John’s face lit up. “You think? Oh my God, I hope so. Mary’s just... she’s everything I ever wanted, you know? She gets me, and I can see a future with her. And she’s got great tits. We’ll have to wait to get married, I guess, can’t be helped.  And when I’m out, and working in a hospital, I’ll be able to get her everything she deserves.” He patted his pocket. “This ring is beautiful, but she deserves diamonds.”

Sherlock swallowed, and pushed his face into an expression he hoped was positive. “She’s a lucky woman, John.”

But John was riding a wave of euphoria; Sherlock had said Mary would say yes, so it must be so. “And you’ll be my best man, won’t you, Sherlock? I couldn’t get married without my best mate standing up with me.”

Sherlock nodded; he didn’t trust himself to speak.

John bounced from his chair, a man on springs. “I have to go, Sherlock. I’m going to do it now, before I lose my nerve. But I’ll come back tomorrow, okay? And we can have takeaway and start planning the stag!” When Sherlock rose as well, John clapped him in another fierce hug. “Wish me luck!”

He rushed out the door, not waiting for Sherlock’s reply.

“Good luck,” Sherlock said to the empty room. He didn’t mean it.

~~

Less than a month later, as Sherlock stood with his best friend at the altar of Mary’s little country parish church, watching the bride in her white dress come down the aisle, he prayed for his bowtie to strangle him.

He listened as John promised to love and honour Mary, and worship her body. He forced a smile and shook John’s hand, wishing with all his heart he could hold on to it forever.

~~

5\. P.S. I Love You

Montague St., London, 2005

_3 September, 2005_

_My dear John._

_Honestly, what a trite way to begin a letter. As if the news a letter from me could bring anything not of import. Really, this should be imparted to you face to face or, at the very least, over the phone. Unfortunately, Afghanistan being what it is, the chances of getting you in person are slim to none, whereas I know you will get this letter, even delayed._

_John. I … regret to inform you that Mary and your parents were killed in an automobile accident two days ago. As Mary was an orphan, and as your own sister is, perhaps, less than reliable these days, the unhappy task of sharing the news has fallen to me._

_As I write this letter, preparations are being made for the funeral services. Your parents’ wills specified cremation, but Mary had no such arrangements in place. As her husband, you have the final decision. In an uncharacteristic fit of generosity, Mycroft has agreed to keep her remains in our family mausoleum until you send word of your wishes for them._

_I will continue to try to reach you be telephone, as I know it may be several weeks before you receive this._

_I remain, etc. etc._

_SH_

 

Sherlock sealed the letter, wishing he had had the courage (wishing it was the right time), to add what he had really wanted to say. He contented himself with scratching it into the table’s soft wood with the nib of his fountain pen.

_P.S. I love you, John._

~~

6\. With a Little Help From My Friends

Buxton Gardens, Acton, June 2007

Sherlock flipped through the post as he walked through the door of the Buxton Gardens flat. The one on Montague Street had become uninhabitable over the last year; besides, after his stint in rehab, Sherlock had developed a marked aversion to returning to his old haunts. The new one was in a rough area, but it was cheap, and the people were so _fascinating_.

Dropping the rest of the post on the table in the entryway, Sherlock frowned as he turned over an official-looking envelope with the snake, laurel wreath and crown logo of the RAMC in the corner. His heart thudded painfully as he ripped it open.

His last letter to John slipped out and hit the floor with a smack, but Sherlock didn’t register the sound as he opened the folded note.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_We regret to inform you that Captain J H Watson, 5 th Northumberland Fusiliers, has been declared Missing in Action…_

The note slipped from Sherlock’s nerveless fingers; the rest was irrelevant.

Since the deaths of his wife and his parents in 2005, John had begun taking more and more risks, and his behaviour was bordering on reckless. Of course, the military hadn’t seen it that way; they simply saw a doctor taking initiative in a combat situation, and kept piling medals and awards on him. Sherlock had most of them in a box in his closet; John simply sent them home, uninterested in what they represented. He hadn’t been back himself, since October 2005, a flying visit to bury Mary’s ashes in her family plot and thank Mycroft for his kindness. Sherlock had seen him for less than a day:

_“John, I am sorry for your loss.”_

_“Yeah, thanks.”_

_The ring was in its box on the dresser; the funeral home attendant had returned it in a small baggie, along with the ashes in a simple bronze urn._

_Silence. John was lying on his side on his sister’s guest bed, curled up with a bottle of Scotch; Sherlock was looking around the room, anywhere but at the way one of John’s hands propped up his head, the other resting softly on the quilt in front of him, and doing his damnedest to hide his desperation to clutch that hand and never let it go._

_“How long do you have?”_

_“Until tomorrow. I have to be at the airport at 0900.” John frowned, and then curled his free hand around the neck of the bottle. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I just need space right now, if you don’t mind.” He offered a watery little smile as he pulled a silver frame with his wedding photo closer to the edge of the nightstand. “I’ll call you before I leave in the morning, okay?”_

_It was understandable for a man to want to be alone to grieve his dead wife. It didn’t stop Sherlock’s heart from freezing in his chest. “Of course.” He left the room quietly, ignoring the sloshing sound as the bottle hit the floor._

But now he was missing in action. Sherlock had no idea of the success rate of recovering kidnapped personnel in Afghanistan, but the idea of John being lost forever had wrapped its cold hands around his heart and squeezed.

Swallowing his pride, Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted his brother.

~~

Here Comes the Sun

end of June 2007

“Sherlock?”

The line was staticky, the sound flat and tinny, and he sounded like he’d been through the wringer, but it was John. Relief flooded through Sherlock, releasing tension he’d been carrying for so long he didn’t even realise it anymore.

“John.”

“Oh God, Sherlock. It’s so good to hear your voice, I thought… never mind. You’re there, it’s amazing.”

“John.” Why couldn’t he say it now? What was it about John that made the words stick in his throat?

“Sherlock. I can’t talk long, I can’t believe I got to make this call. I just had to hear your voice, and tell you… I’m okay. Sherlock? Are you there?”

He realised he had been silent for too long, just listening to John’s voice, listening to him breathe. “I’m here, John. I…” _I love you._ “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Me too, Sherlock. I’ll be coming back to London for a leave, at the end of the month. Three weeks; meet me at the train station?”

“Of course.” Sherlock would have walked to Afghanistan to fetch John, if necessary.

“They’re going to keep me in hospital, to recuperate a bit, but as soon as I’m fit to travel I’ll be flown out. I’ll text you when I land, give you my details, okay?”

“Yes. John…” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, knowing he would swallow the words, yet again.

“Yeah?”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Sherlock. I have to go, though. Thank Mycroft for me, will you?”

“You’re my friend, John. It’s the least he could do for you.” Sherlock had brushed his pride aside and practically begged Mycroft to help; his intelligence on the ground had found John much faster than the military would have done.

“And you’re my best mate, Sherlock. I’m lucky to have a mate like you. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Look after yourself, Sherlock.” And with a click, he was gone.

He still hadn’t said the words. But in his heart, the sun was shining, and he felt warmer than he had in a while.

~~

7\. Nowhere Man

London, January, 2010

John was struggling.

Sherlock didn’t really know what to do in such a situation. He was used to simply observing the problem and finding the solution; he left the actual implementation to other people. He deduced who took the jewellery, or did the cheating, or embezzled the money, but left the recovery or the justice, the tedious clearing up, to someone else. But it was clear, when it came to John, that Sherlock needed to actually step up and help him.

He just wished he knew how.

Since his return from Afghanistan, his left arm in a sling, his shoulder in a thick, white bandage, John was aimless. He seemed determined to sit at home in his small, beige bedsit, ignoring the calls from his sister, his friends, his former colleagues. He hardly answered the door when Sherlock came by, and apart from therapy appointments, never went outside anymore. It was extremely worrying, and Sherlock was at a loss.

He spent hours on the Internet, researching how to bring someone back from depression, but the results were inconclusive; it seemed evenly split between a vocal minority who believed mental problems were, to use the vernacular, all in one’s head, and a larger, more scientifically-based, calmer faction. However, even their advice diverged wildly from one “expert” to another. Still, some things he read made sense.

At first, Sherlock just tried to be with John. He sat with him quietly, not pushing conversation, which was no particular hardship for him. Occasionally, he brought his violin, but more often John seemed to prefer silence.

He tried drawing John into his work. John had enjoyed receiving letters detailing his exploits with the Yard, even though he presented the details logically, almost clinically, without fanfare or romance. However, John merely smiled briefly and returned to staring out the window, physically present in his tiny room, but mentally nowhere.

Some days were better than others. John was able to rouse himself to visit his therapist and attend his physiotherapy sessions, but they seemed to take a lot out of him. He always returned home, alone, and nothing Sherlock said or did could shift him into doing anything, with anyone.

~~

Let it Be

London, March 2010

Things didn’t improve. John stayed stubbornly put in his tiny room, resisting Sherlock’s attempts to move him to Buxton Gardens. Admittedly, Sherlock didn’t have much of a flat, but surely anything was better than this horribly depressing bedsit.

Sherlock wasn’t accustomed to being so helpless, or so useless. He was frustrated in every attempt to get John out of his head, but the now ex-solder would just smile tiredly and tell him to let him be, that he was fine.

Neither of them was fine.

~~

The End

London, June 2010

The only thing that seemed to garner any kind of response from John was when Sherlock was hurt. More than once, he returned to John, sporting a bandage or plaster or, in one case, a terrific black eye. In each case, John rose from his chair immediately, limped over to Sherlock, pushed him down onto the narrow bed, and tended his injury gently and competently, using his little first-aid kit. As soon as he was satisfied that Sherlock would recover, he would smile softly and return to his chair.

It didn’t take a genius of Sherlock’s calibre to see what the solution to John’s malaise would be.

Sherlock knew he was putting himself at unnecessary risk. His last injury, two broken fingers, had healed poorly; thank goodness they were on his bowing hand. Now in his thirties, Sherlock had noticed he didn’t recover as quickly as he used to, but if breaking bones was what it took to see a spark of the old John again, then Sherlock would willingly have all of his broken twice over.

Finally, as they are wont to do, things came to a head.

Sherlock had been pursuing a suspect in a case of human trafficking. It was late at night, moonless, and he was distracted. John was not getting any better, after months back home, and Sherlock was reaching the end of his patience. He had taken the case, a mere four, out of desperation to get out and _move, do anything_ , but John was in the back of his mind, as always, and he hadn’t noticed that the man had doubled back and hidden in an alley, stepping out only to cosh him on the back of the head. It was poorly aimed and glanced off, but it was hard enough to send Sherlock sprawling.

When he awoke, he was in hospital, bandaged heavily, the pain a dull throb at the back of his head. He had an IV (only saline, he noted blearily); with his history of substance abuse, there was no chance he’d be given anything stronger than paracetamol. To his disgust, Mycroft was seated at his bedside, texting busily on his Blackberry; his nostrils twitched as Sherlock turned his head and winced.

“How long will you persist in continuing this poorly-thought-out, completely unorthodox treatment of Dr Watson?” Mycroft never looked up from his phone.

Sherlock snorted. “Thank you, yes, _I’m fine_. And as long as it takes.”

At this, Mycroft put his mobile in his breast pocket and fixed Sherlock with his steady gaze. “Mon frère, you cannot continue this. I’ve spoken with your attending physician; he is convinced you are either being abused, or have a death wish, or both. And are you experiencing success with your John? Has he come out of his depression, has he a job, a life?”

“…No.” Grudgingly.

“Sherlock, surely you know Einstein’s views on doing the same thing over and over. This plan of yours is mad, frankly, and frightening. What will happen to John if you take it too far?”

Sherlock turned his face away; he couldn’t bear Mycroft’s expression, pity and frustration in an odd mix. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t come to that; it’s no use to speculate.”

“Sherlock,” his brother said firmly, “you will cease and desist immediately. Under no circumstances will you deliberately injure yourself again to get attention from Dr Watson.”

“This time wasn’t deliberate,” Sherlock groused. “And it was working.”

“Oh, really?” Mycroft flicked his eyes around the room. “Has Dr Watson been by to see you, then?”

It was quite clear that he hadn’t. Sherlock rolled his eyes, sucking in a breath at the pain in the back of his head. “He doesn’t know what happened yet.”

“Oh, but he does; I had my assistant stop by and tell him. And yet, not a sign of him. I think it is quite clear, Sherlock, that your plan has failed.”

Even though he knew Mycroft couldn’t see his face, Sherlock tried to school his expression into neutrality. “It hasn’t. He will come to see me for himself.”

“I rather doubt it. Your John is in the grips of a depression so deep, he finds it difficult to get out of bed most mornings.”

Sherlock knew it was true; the last time he had visited John, he had noticed immediately that he was still in last week’s pajamas.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was kind, more so than Sherlock had ever heard it. “Have you simply tried telling him?”

How could he respond to that?

“Sherlock?”

“I can’t.” In a whisper.

“Why not?”

Silence.

“Sherlock. Do you know if perhaps the good doctor reciprocates your feelings?”

“No.”

Mycroft sighed, and then rose from his seat. “This plan is at an end, Sherlock. You must not play games with your life any longer. Perhaps, when you are well, you should sit with John and… take a different sort of risk.”

“How would you know anything about this?” Sherlock flared, the throbbing in his skull keeping pace with his pulse. “You’re the one who told me to hide it away, when we were boys!”

The tip of the omnipresent umbrella tapped as Mycroft approached the bed; he stroked Sherlock’s greasy curls softly. “At that time, I did not believe your feelings were returned. You put your whole self into everything you do, mon frère; I did not wish for you to feel the pain of rejection. Better, I reasoned, for you to have him as your friend, than not at all. But I have watched the both of you grow up together, and even when he was married, I believe John was completely devoted to you.” His thumb rubbed small circles on Sherlock’s temple, as it had when they were boys and Sherlock suffered earaches. “You’ve nothing to lose, here. To get love, you must offer it; in the end, it is all you can give him.” He pulled his hand away. “I will keep an eye on him until you are released. And, Sherlock…” He paused, and his words were not surprising. “If you persevere in this mad plan, I’ll have you sectioned.”

The door shut with a soft click, and Sherlock was alone.

~~

London, August 2010

Sherlock’s recovery from his concussion was smooth, if a little slower than usual. Forced to spend his time in a hospital bed (bloody Mycroft, posting a guard so he couldn’t make a break for it), Sherlock had nothing to do but think, about John, about his feelings for John, about everything.

The gentle approach had not worked, so far. The only thing that had managed to get any sort of reaction out of his friend had been Sherlock’s injuries, but as much as it galled him to admit it, Mycroft was correct: if he sustained his plan, he would wind up incapacitated or worse.

In defiance against everything he’d read online, it was time for a new, radical approach: he would yank John back into life. Physically, if necessary.

It took some time to assemble the pieces of his new plan, but he had the time. The Buxton Gardens flat was rapidly becoming uninhabitable, and his landlord was extremely unsupportive of advancing the cause of science. Sherlock had received so many complaints about the sheep scrotums soaking in the sink of the common bathroom that he felt it was beyond time to find a more welcoming environment. Fortunately, an old acquaintance had recently contacted him upon her return to London from America, and Sherlock was confident of securing a new flat in a better neighbourhood.

New accommodations lined up, Sherlock next set to work creating a more consistent work situation for himself and for John. He took on more cases with NSY, but kept the risk-taking to a minimum. As well, through a fortuitous meeting with Mike Stamford, whom he remembered from John’s medical school days, he was able to line up a few interviews in surgeries and at Barts’ A&E for John.

The one unknown in his plan was John himself.

Sherlock had no way of knowing how he would react, but surely, at this point, anything would be preferable to the mostly nothing he had provoked so far.

And now, standing in the grubby corridor outside the bedsit, Sherlock was about to risk it all.

~~

8\. Across the Universe

221B Baker St., London, early September 2010

The lights were off at 221B Baker Street, but Sherlock didn’t care.

Really, what was the point of having the perfect flat if there wasn’t anyone there to share it?

When Sherlock had first visited Mrs Hudson’s building, he had been very impressed. Its location on a main road meant getting taxis would be a breeze, and the nearby tube station would make it easy for John to commute to work. Not that he would be working a great deal; in Sherlock’s vision of their future, John would be providing assistance to him as he solved case after case. They would work perfectly together, a well-oiled machine, the adrenaline from chasing criminals would pull John from his funk and he would see that Sherlock was not only his best friend, but the most important person in his life.

Sherlock would choose his moment, perhaps after the thrill of the chase, the high they got from running someone dangerous to ground thrumming through their veins, and he would lean in and kiss John, so delicately but so confidently, and pour all of his feelings for John through his lips. And, perhaps after his initial surprise, John would return the kiss, and sigh…

Well. More fool, Sherlock.

Since the end of August, Sherlock hadn’t worked. He’d barely eaten, and sleep was impossible. He could not delete his last conversation with John.

~~

_He strode into John’s tiny room without knocking, finding his friend, as usual, in his chair by the window, cane at his side. John turned and gave Sherlock one of his increasingly absent smiles._

_Sherlock yanked open the closet door and pulled out John’s old military duffle. “It’s a good thing you didn’t unpack your footlocker,” he said in false cheerfulness as he began stuffing clothing into the bag. “It will make this much faster.”_

_“Sherlock?” John sounded… not confused, not quite, but not interested, either. “What’s this?”_

_“I’ve found us a flat, John. I’ve moved in already, and you’re coming now. And I’ve gotten Mike Stamford to set up a few interviews for you, not that you’ll be working much.”_

_“Why not?”_

_Sherlock finished emptying the closet, and then opened the top bureau drawer and pulled out pants and socks. “Because you’ll be helping me. I need someone I can trust. You’ll be invaluable as my assistant.”_

_He slammed the  drawer and opened the middle one, pulling out t-shirts and pajamas. “The flat is quite nice. It’s got two bedrooms; we can use one for storage, of course, or I was thinking of turning it into a lab. I need a place to put my microscope and all of my lab equipment.”_

_He closed the second drawer and started on the bottom, mainly books and papers. “And it’s in a good area, and the landlady is one of my former clients, owes me a bit of a favour. It’s far nicer than anything else we could afford, at least until you get back on your feet. But I expect…”_

_Sherlock kicked the bottom drawer shut and zipped up the bag. “… that shouldn’t take too long. You’re an experienced physician. Of course, anywhere you work will have to give you a flexible schedule; cases just happen and I’ll need you—”_

_He was interrupted by John as he lifted the duffle on to the bed. “Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere.”_

_He dropped the bag on the footlocker. “What do you mean? You can’t stay in this grotty little bedsit.”_

_John stayed sitting, but his arms were crossed and there was a stubborn set to his jaw. “I’m fine here. Put my things away.”_

_“I don’t understand.”_

_“Of course you don’t. But that’s okay, that’s just who you are.” John returned to staring out the window._

_“What do you mean, that’s who I am?”_

_John smiled briefly, but there was no joy in it. “You’re the centre of the universe, Sherlock. Listen to yourself; you have all these grand ideas and plans… and they’re all about you, aren’t they.” He sighed softly. “It’s fine; I don’t even really listen anymore.”_

_Sherlock was so shocked, he couldn’t speak, but it didn’t seem to matter;_

_“Words fall out of you. They just spill over, and I feel like I’m drowning in them. You’re so needy, Sherlock. I can’t handle you right now, okay? I just need… peace.”_

_Sherlock tried his hardest to rein himself in; he reminded himself sternly that John was hurting. “I come to you because you need me! I give you a greater purpose in life.”_

**_That_ ** _got a reaction. “I don’t need you to give me a purpose, Sherlock!” John exclaimed, rising to his feet. “I’m doing just fine, here.”_

_“You are a brilliant doctor; stop acting like the army is the only thing that matters!”_

_“It **IS** the only thing that matters!” John snapped. “It was the only thing I had in my whole life. At least, since Mary died.” _

_Gobsmacked, Sherlock flailed for words before coming up with, “But… You have me. I’m your best mate, haven’t you always said?”_

_John sighed angrily before dropping heavily on to the bed. “You don’t need me. You have your work, and you have no need for an old, worn-down soldier who can’t even go to the end of the hall before his leg gives out. For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, I can’t ever hold a scalpel again! I’ll be lucky if anyone lets me pick up a tongue depressor.”_

_He held out his hand; the tremor was violent. “Look at me, Sherlock! Look at my hand, my leg.”_

_“The limp’s psychosomatic—” Sherlock began, but John was having none of it._

_“I don’t care! It hurts, Sherlock, it hurts ALL THE TIME. And you come here, expecting me to put you back together!”_

_“I don’t expect—”_

_“Shut it. You swan in here today, with your new plans, all ‘John, move in with me, we’ll turn one bedroom into a lab’… and where will you sleep? Hang from the ceiling, like a bat? I don’t care about any of this.”_

_“With you,” Sherlock said in a small voice._

_John stopped in mid-rant, the other man’s words slipping by. “With me, what?”_

_“Sleep. With you. I’d hoped.” Sherlock’s face was turning red, he could feel it, but he pressed on. This wasn’t the moment he had pictured, but he had to grasp it as it went by, it seemed._

_John’s face was almost comical, it was so surprised. “Why on earth would you and I share a bedroom?”_

_This was the tipping point, the moment that would pull John back to life, and cement him firmly in Sherlock’s. “Because I’m in love with you. And I am given to understand that couples who are in love share a bed.”_

_Silence._

_Silence._

_Silence._

_And just when Sherlock was about to implore John to say something, **anything** , John let out a strained laugh and covered his face. “Are you insane? Fuck, I knew you wanted me around to be your general dogsbody, but I never thought you’d stoop so low.”_

_“John, I—”_

_“No, listen, Sherlock. For once in your damn life, just listen! Real love… I had that with Mary. But you… you just have your work, and your puzzles, and you don’t even care about the people involved. You’ve never had a real relationship with another person, I know how you dumped Victor. You’ll just get bored like you always do, and I’m not going to uproot my life. I don’t need your flat, or your cases, or your pity. I’m done with it all, okay. Just go, and leave me alone.”_

_Sherlock stood, completely still, in the middle of the tiny room. “I don’t… you can’t possibly mean that, John.”_

_“I said **GO** , Sherlock!”_

_The silence in the hall was deafening._

~~

All You Need is Love

September 2010

Sherlock had replayed the conversation again and again; how many times, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t delete it. It was the last time he’d heard John’s voice, and for a moment, some of the passion had been there. Too bad it was directed into telling Sherlock to bugger off.

There was one thing that Sherlock had noticed, sometime later, and he had clung to it, a life raft in the sea of John’s words: In his rant, John had not once said he didn’t love Sherlock.

He completely doubted Sherlock’s feelings for him, that much was clear, but at no time had he told Sherlock he didn’t return them, or that he was straight and could never love a man, nothing tiresome like that.

But that had been nearly two weeks ago. Sherlock wasn’t certain on proper procedure here: did he give John space? The risk there was in giving too much time; what if John thought Sherlock’s feelings had changed, or that he had been forgotten? Sherlock knew, if anything, that what he felt for John was stronger than ever; since John’s return, Sherlock had seen his friend ( _were_ they still friends, even?) at least once a day, barring prolonged hospital stays, and this separation was excruciating. Or should he be more present, send little tokens of affection? Flowers and chocolate were traditional, he’d heard, but John had never really enjoyed chocolate, and flowers didn’t seem a proper gift for a man. He supposed he could send John a new watch, or perhaps a tie? But no, that was ridiculous; John didn’t have anywhere to be which required a tie, and a watch would just reinforce the difference in their financial situations, which would be completely counterproductive.

But something had to be done. Until he spoke to John again, and resolved the situation one way or the other, Sherlock was stuck in this limbo, unable to focus on anything else. Lestrade’s texts had gone unanswered, and both times Mycroft had visited, Sherlock had ignored him until he sighed and left. Mrs Hudson occasionally left food, so Sherlock didn’t starve, but she reported to Mycroft (nosy arse!) in worried phone calls that Sherlock was eating the bare minimum to survive, and he was thin enough as it was, poor soul.

When the doorbell rang, Sherlock was lying on the couch, in the dark. He was dressed in the same pajamas he had put on… he really couldn’t remember. Possibly last week? It didn’t matter, really. The only person who visited was Mycroft, and Sherlock took a dimly perverse pleasure in being offensive to all five senses. He rather wondered if he was falling into the same depression gripping John, and decided he really didn’t care.

Mrs Hudson answering the door didn’t rouse him; the steps on the stairs were unusual, not Mycroft’s. Perhaps a private client? The steps where arrhythmic, almost as though the man (and it was a man; Sherlock could discern that, even in his fog) had one leg shorter than the other, or perhaps limped…

He sat up abruptly, ignoring the way his head swam from lack of food and proper sleep. It couldn’t possibly be…

John stood in the doorway to the flat, haloed by the light in the hall. “Sherlock?” His tone was uncertain, but his voice, Sherlock had thought to hear it only in his memory, spouting cruelties. “Your landlady told me you were here?” John spoke more loudly; perhaps he thought Sherlock was in his bedroom, or the bathroom.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “John?” His voice was rusty, and he struggled to sound calm. “I’m here.”

“Jesus, why are you sitting in the dark?” John shuffled a little further into the room. “Can I turn on a light?”

Without taking his eyes from the small figure in the doorway, Sherlock leaned to the left and yanked the chain on the lamp. The light was dim, but his eyes were unused to it and he felt them watering in response. He blinked rapidly to clear them, and to get his first real look at John.

His friend (they _were_ still friends, until John said otherwise) was hovering just inside the door, clearly unsure of his welcome. He was clasping his cane loosely, more out of habit, Sherlock thought. His hair was newly trimmed and he was freshly shaved, and the black circles under his eyes had faded. He was wearing a cream-coloured jumper and clean jeans, his black jacket hanging open. “Can I come in?” He asked awkwardly; Sherlock thought he had never been more beautiful.

He angled his head towards the armchair near the fire, and John limped over, settling himself with a sigh. He took a deep breath and let it out, and did it again, as if he were pulling himself together. Sherlock waited in silence.

“Sherlock, I…” John stared at the floor in front of him, before inhaling deeply again and finally meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “First of all, I owe you an apology.”

“John…”

“No, please hear me out. I’m sorry, Sherlock. After you left, I thought quite a bit about everything you said, and everything I said. And I was a berk; you were just trying to help. And so, first of all, I’m sorry.” His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the skull on the mantel, the books, the knife holding the post in place, the papers scattered on the desk by the window. When his gaze returned, Sherlock nodded, indicating he should continue.

“After you left, I called Mycroft.” He smiled at Sherlock’s reaction; that fat git. “No, I really did call him; I still have his number from … well, with Mary. We went for a walk in the park—” Sherlock snorted at the idea of his brother walking willingly anywhere, but John pressed on. “We did, and we had a good talk. I wanted… well, I wanted to know if he knew about your ideas, with the flat, and the work, and everything, and how serious you were, and if…” This time, he looked away, and his ears slowly turned pink.

“If I meant what I said,” Sherlock supplied softly. “If I could really be in love with you.”

“Yeah.” John swallowed. “After telling me he knew you were up to something, but that he was trying not to get involved, he assured me… in the strongest possible terms… that there was no way you hadn’t meant it. That the only other person he knew, unequivocally, you had ever loved, was your mother, and that you weren’t shy about telling her, every day.” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John continued, a little less nervously. “And then, he essentially told me to man up and get my head out of my arse. Not in those words, of course…” He chuckled nervously. “But he made it pretty clear that the military hadn’t invested so much time and money in me, just to see me roll over and surrender when things got difficult. He was hard on me… but I needed to hear it.”

Sherlock was getting impatient, but he tried to swallow it; best to let John get there in his own time. He wanted to laugh hysterically at the idea of Mycroft using a word like ‘arse’, even though he had probably spewed some British-ism involving the words “stiff upper lip” or something equally trite.

“So… Okay. Here goes. I understand you have a spare bedroom, and I was hoping you hadn’t turned it into a lab yet? Because I think I’ve gotten a job, in an A&E, and this is much closer, and… God Sherlock, I just really miss you, you know? And I miss being Sherlock-and-John, and I would like to work with you, if you wanted. If you needed someone.”

Sherlock was only human; he had tried his hardest, but he couldn’t help it any longer. “John, I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. You… are aware, of my feelings, but we are friends, first and foremost, and I feel… I cannot lose that. If you would prefer to keep your own space, here, then I can respect that, and please be assured, there will be no pressure of any kind. We will continue on, as we have always done, and while I regret putting you in such a terrible position, but I cannot regret my words. I have loved you since you left to go to Elmwood; without you with me every day, I realised just how much I needed you, and how strongly I felt. When I stood up with you at your wedding, it was under false pretenses, but you were happy, and I couldn’t take that away from you.”

John tried to interrupt, but Sherlock held up his hand. “No, John, please. I can only hope that one day, perhaps, you will understand the depths of my feelings, and I dare hope that one day you may return them, but I most sincerely hope that, if nothing else, I can return to your good graces and remain your friend, regardless of whatever else may happen.”

He finished his speech and closed his mouth, and made do with staring at John’s nose rather than looking him in the eyes. So while he missed seeing John’s eyes crinkle the way they did when he was happy, he was in a perfect position to see the warm smile cross his face, and he watched as John stood and crossed to the sofa, to sit next to him.

“Sherlock, in everything I said, which I completely regret, and which I can’t apologise enough for, did I ever once say I didn’t love you back?”

Having obsessed over this detail since their last meeting, Sherlock was able to answer immediately. “No.”

“It’s because it’s true. You’re my best mate, Sherlock. You always have been. Even when I was with Mary, there was a part of me that wondered… but you were with Victor, and then it just seemed like you didn’t want anyone, let alone me, and then I left, and you had your work, and then the whole drug thing, but you got clean, without me, and then back to work, and it just seemed… I came home, completely destroyed, and I had nothing going for me, and you have your whole life ahead of you. The last thing you needed was some old man slowing you down.”

His hand stole across the sofa and lightly brushed against Sherlock’s. “But I couldn’t forget what you said, and your face as you said it, and then Mycroft…” He swallowed, so loudly Sherlock could hear how dry John’s throat was. “Sherlock… I’m suffering, and some days I feel like I’m completely falling apart. But you’ve been there for me since I got back, more than Harry, more than anyone, in your own way. So, I guess, I’m saying… maybe… more than friends is something…” Words finally failed him and he sat beside Sherlock, progressively turning redder and redder, and it was wonderful.

Sherlock took the biggest step he’d ever taken, and grasped John’s nerveless fingers in his own. “I don’t need you to say anything else right now, John. This is not a situation with which I have a great deal of familiarity, but I believe I understand you perfectly.”

John’s hand tightened around his own. “You’re giving me a place to live; through your connections, you’ve helped me find a possible job; Sherlock, I have to say… what am I bringing to this… relationship?” He stumbled a bit on the last word. “What am I giving you in return?”

Sherlock smiled, for the first time in what seemed like ages. “All I need is your love.”

~~

9\. The Long and Winding Road

221B Baker St., London, January, 2012

The ceremony was small and quick, held in the sitting room of 221B. After his wedding with Mary, John hadn’t wanted anything elaborate, and Sherlock would have been pleased to sign the papers just about anywhere. But Mrs Hudson hadn’t been feeling well of late, and they couldn’t do it without her; besides, there was something fitting about declaring their commitment before their friends and family in the place where they had first declared it to each other.

Everyone took their leave reasonably soon; Mycroft and Lestrade had to return to work, and Mrs Hudson’s hip was still giving her pain, so within forty minutes of signing the papers, Sherlock and John were alone again, sitting close to each other on the couch, cooling cups of tea on the table. Sherlock couldn't believe how surreal everything still felt. He was holding John’s hand, and matching platinum bands glinted on their fingers. A little more than a year earlier, Sherlock wasn’t sure anything like this would ever happen, or even could; he and John hadn’t been speaking to each other, and Sherlock hadn’t been certain he would ever get to be with John ever again, even as his friend.

“Hey.” Sherlock felt his new ring dig into his finger as John squeezed his hand. He shook his head slightly and focused on his new husband’s face, his kind smile and soft eyes. “You’re a thousand miles away. What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock sighed softly; he couldn’t ever remember being this happy. “Do you realise we met over twenty years ago?”

John smiled more deeply and leaned against Sherlock’s arm. “But me hauling you out of a bush can’t be what’s pulling you so far from me, right now?” He stroked his fingers along the lean line of Sherlock’s thigh in his suit trousers.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, drawing them more tightly together. “I was thinking that… it seems like whatever happened to us, either together or separated, regardless of the trials, you marrying Mary...”

“Hey!” John objected. “That wasn’t a trial!”

“… You being so far away in Afghanistan, you getting shot,” Sherlock continued, as if John had not spoken, and then paused. “You getting married was a terrible trial for me, actually.”

“Well then, let’s include the drugs, you trying to get yourself maimed, paralysed, or killed, just for my attention. There were trials for me too, you know.”

Sherlock inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Shakespeare did say that ‘the course of true love never did run smooth’, but I think even he would agree that our path was a little longer and more winding than most.”

“Mmm.” John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m just glad it brought us back together. So many close calls, Sherlock. But you never gave up on us, did you? You walked the whole road, and brought me back to you. I’m just sorry I kept you waiting for so long.”

“You were worth the wait.” Sherlock caught up John’s left hand with his own, rubbing his thumb over the warm metal.

John kissed Sherlock’s knuckles, just above his ring. “Thank you for marrying me, Sherlock. You saved my life.”

Sherlock returned the kiss. “And you made mine worth living again.”

 

~The End~

 

 

The inspiration for Mary’s wedding ring can be found [here](http://janabrevick.com/index.php?cat=custom&sub=Engagement%20Rings%20Series&uid=139).


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